The Red Cell

by André Le Gallo

  “What are you reading, Karim?” Kristen asked, as the she pointed to the book, the cover of which was not written in a language she could read. “Is it in Farsi?”

  “Yes, it is.” Karim replied, looking at the book. “It’s about Sharia Law, which is much older than Western Law.”

  “How interesting. And is this a book from a course you are taking?”

  “It’s not exactly required reading, but I’m going to write a paper comparing Sharia Law with European Law.”

  “I’m not a lawyer, but that is a paper I would enjoy reading,” Kristen said, trying but failing to catch Karim’s eyes. “You will find overlaps, dating back to the Arab invasions of Southern Europe.” Interpreting Karim’s frown to mean she was on the wrong track, Kristen added, “Of course. There are probably better comparisons, such as the results of Persian wars with Athens.”

  Kristen knew she was speaking beyond her knowledge but hoped she would not sound idiotic. She felt relieved when Karim finally looked at her and smiled, though she couldn’t tell whether he was smiling at her ignorance or whether she had actually scored a scholarly point.

  “Svetlana and I met last night, and we talked about foreign students here in Belgium. I am so glad you were able to meet with me. It’s a topic that is very misunderstood, and I am trying to get viewpoints from the students themselves.”

  Karim ordered a steak and pommes frites, the quarter-pounder of French cuisine. Kristen ordered an onion soup gratinée. Although her guest was naturally shy, Kristen gradually coaxed Karim out of his shell, and he became more engaged as the lunch went on. Soon he was actually volunteering his thoughts.

  “This is so useful,” Kristen said. “Here, I would like you to take my cell number, just in case you have other thoughts later. And let me have yours also.”

  Svetlana returned as the waitress served coffee to Kristen and Karim. She sat and opened a box. “Look, Karim. These are the running shoes you’re buying me for my birthday.”

  When Karim only smiled quietly, Kristen seized the opportunity. “Do you run every day? I’d love to run with you tomorrow. I really need to get back in shape.”

  “Absolutely,” Svetlana responded. “That would be fun. I hate to run alone. Here is our address.” She wrote it on a napkin and handed it across the table.

  “Do you run too, Karim?”

  “That is a joke,” Svetlana replied, laughing. “Karim takes a nap when I go running. Can we meet at one tomorrow? Meet me in front of our apartment, and we can go to the university track.”

  18. Charleroi

  “We are being tailed,” the embassy driver said to his two passengers in the back. “It’s a dark-colored Renault. Blue, I think.”

  “Lose them before we get to the safe house,” Yosemani said.

  “It should not be very difficult. They are hanging way back, trying to be clever. But I have had my eye on them for at least ten miles. I saw them almost as soon as we left the embassy.”

  “I understand she is sick,” Yosemani said to Dr. Hafiz, sitting beside him in the back of the car. “Or she is pretending to be sick. She still has not said anything useful, and she is no good to us dead. If she talks in the next few days, we can get rid of her here. If not, we will have to get her on the next flight. My security guards are not interrogators. We have professionals back home.”

  As the car turned off the highway onto the first Charleroi exit, the general looked back but did not see the Renault.

  The driver made a few extra turns to try to detect the surveillance car before heading toward the safe house, determining the Renault must have lost them.

  The two guards saluted the general as soon as he entered the house. “This is Doctor Hafiz,” Yosemani said. “He is here to examine our prisoner. You,” he said, pointing to Gold Glasses, “stay here and tell me what you have learned from her.” “Take the doctor to the prisoner,” he told the other man.

  “General, General!” The doctor said, as he rushed out of a side bedroom. “She is bleeding. We cannot keep her tied to that chair. She must lie down. I think she has had a miscarriage! We need towels.”

  “Go help the doctor,” the general told his two guards. The prisoner was beginning to be a problem, he thought. Although he was sure of her identity, she had not admitted to any name other than Jane Mercier. There were starting to be diplomatic repercussions. The Belgian foreign minister had summoned the Iranian Ambassador and asked, in the most diplomatic terms, whether he had any information on a Jane Mercier. The French Embassy had also sent a diplomatic note asking the same question. The Americans would use the Swiss Ambassador in Tehran for any communications, but they had not yet done so, and he was waiting to see what name the Americans would choose, Hastings or Mercier.

  He needed to stop all this turmoil, all these diplomatic charades, or his own prime minister would order him to cease and desist and come home. The worst thing that could happen now was for the story to reach the media.

  For the first time, he started to wonder whether DuChemin had captured the right person. Although he was always right about assessing people, could he have been fooled by the Belgian, so anxious to please? That DuChemin was venal was not a question. He had headed the Belgian Internal Security Service, so he must have some abilities. But now he was proving unable to direct a team of half a dozen men. Whatever happened, DuChemin would have a short retirement.

  The more he thought about the woman, the more pessimistic he became she would reveal her information without professional interrogation. He would order the embassy to extract her via diplomatic pouch. They could easily build a crate that would hold her, he thought. But could she live through the process? That was a question for the doctor.

  Speaking of which, he looked at his watch and wondered how long the doctor would need to make sure the prisoner lived long enough to answer questions. He grew eager to return to Brussels to see his wife again. He was sure the future chronicle of his country would include the stories of how he and his wife, Aisha, given the code name Nightingale by the Supreme Leader himself, had fooled the Americans, the Great Satan. Not only was Aisha a source of invaluable information, she was also an agent of influence. Her efforts would certainly give the scientists another six months, at least. That is all that would be needed, he thought. Delay the Americans long enough, and Iran will have a nuclear weapon.

  Meanwhile, he would need to see his son. The next day.

  19. Kristen’s Apartment

  Kristen’s apartment was now Steve’s operational headquarters. He had moved out of his hotel, where Kella’s kidnappers must have picked her up. If they knew where Kella could be found, they could obviously find him as well. He had also moved his two team members there. “Don’t worry,” Steve told Kristen. “We’ll be out of your hair in forty-eight hours at the most.” Kristen didn’t know whether to be angry or pleased to be suddenly surrounded by all that testosterone.

  “Today’s the day,” Steve told her, and his two men. Hunter and McCabe had similar backgrounds but could not have been more different in temperament. Both had combat experience, Hunter with Special Forces in Afghanistan, and McCabe with the agency, also in Afghanistan. He had participated in the horseback assault on the Taliban-held town of Mazar Al Sharif at the start of the war. Where Hunter was chatty and extroverted, however, McCabe did not say much, unless it was relevant to the situation at hand.

  “I’ve got a car,” McCabe said, “but I haven’t had time to fix the doors to lock them from the driver’s position. And I have to admit it doesn’t look much like a limousine.”

  “Kristen, you’ll just have to say you rented the car and driver for the occasion and that’s the best you could do on short notice,” Steve said. “On the positive side, Colonel Vanness has a house in Waterloo he will lend to us for the duration. We can hold Karim there if we can’t make the exchange quickly. Apparently it’s a house he inherited, and he plans to rent it. But in the meantime, it’s available.” He placed an unlit cigarette between
his lips. “Ideally, we’d need another week to put all the pieces in place. But God knows what Kella’s situation is, and we have to move quickly to get her back. Alive.”

  He turned toward Kristen and tapped the cigarette on the back of his hand. “The key lies in your hands, Kristen.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Kristen said. “I have a date to go running with Svetlana later today. But you want me to call her about an hour before and confirm Karim will not be coming with us in order to elicit anything from her about Karim’s schedule today. Assuming he is still free, I will call her back fifteen minutes later to tell her something has come up, and I cannot go running because I have just been invited to screen a movie for an important magazine. And I would like Karim to come with me because it is an Iranian movie. I go pick him up with Hunter playing the role of a chauffeur. Once Karim gets in the car, Hunter locks the doors and we hold him in exchange for Kella.”

  She looked at her audience for a second and asked, “What if Svetlana also wants to come to the movie?”

  “Is Svetlana a fitness freak or not?” Hunter asked, showing a gap between his front teeth as he smiled.

  “Remember, KISS,” McCabe said. “Keep It Simple, Stupid. What if you showed up after Svetlana took off on her run?”

  “What if Karim is not interested. What if he prefers to sleep?” she asked.

  “Tell him the movie is an attempt to explain Sharia Law to the West,” Steve said. “How can he resist? Also, don’t give Karim the time to research this nonexistent movie online. And don’t mention it to Svetlana on the phone. Make the offer to Karim only after you get there. Don’t give him time to think about it.

  “Meanwhile, Hunter, go fix the locks on the doors. McCabe, go meet Colonel Vanness at the house in Waterloo. And Kristen,” he said looking at his watch, “It’s time to make your call.”

  He stepped out of the room, as Kristen took her phone out of her pocketbook. He was pouring himself a beer when his own cell sounded. It was Marshall.

  Steve felt guilty for not having called his father earlier. Kate had alerted him his father’s situation was not getting better, on the contrary. And he could imagine—or maybe he could not imagine, he thought—how frustrating it must be to lose strength and mobility. His father had always been physically active: tennis and jogging and, more recently, golf and the gym without giving up the tennis. He also wondered how long he could run Red Cell.

  “Hey Dad,” Steve said, “how are you feeling?”

  “I’m feeling fine. You know we’re not in good standing since the White House canceled your mission. Everybody’s waiting for you to report in and explain exactly what happened.”

  “Dad, I can’t leave without finishing what I started, if you know what I mean. I’ve got things in motion, and I’m optimistic.”

  “I do understand, and I’m not telling you to come home. I would do the same thing. And let me know what I can do to help you. Meanwhile, I’ve got another topic for you. I know you have your hands full right now, but I received a phone call from an old friend, Nigel Barnes. I knew him back when, and we’ve sort of kept in touch. He said he has something to tell me that’s very important. He can’t travel to the States at the moment, and obviously I’m in no position to visit him. He’s in Southern France on holiday. You know those Brits. They’ve never gotten over losing their French territory.”

  “But Dad, I’m not in a position to travel, either. What are you suggesting?”

  “I think you and he should connect, so you will be able to decide on the right course of action. I gave him your cell number. He should be calling you soon. Believe me, if he says it’s important, it is.”

  “By the way, how is your other business doing?” Steve asked. “The topic we discussed in Thérèse’s conference room.”

  “At the moment, you’re the only thing on my plate. That other was taken over. They’ve adopted my concept, and they have unlimited resources, so it’s still viable.”

  “And how are you feeling? What’s going on with you?”

  “You already know there’s no cure. All the doctors can do is monitor my case. Meantime, I’m getting around with a four-wheel walker. I’m in line to get a power chair. And I’ve just heard about a clinical trial that should begin in the next few weeks. Biogen is putting a hundred million dollars into it, so the obviously think it’s going to work. Otherwise, I’m taking it one day at a time.”

  After the call, Steve picked up his beer and went to the living room to see how Kristen was doing.

  “I have good news and bad news,” she said. “I did speak to Svetlana. Guess what Karim is doing today?” She arched her eyebrows.

  “He’s going to train for a marathon?” Steve said, shrugging his shoulders.

  “He is going to spend time with his father, who is visiting from Iran.”

  “Holy shit! Do everything you can to avoid meeting or even being seen by his father!”

  “Don’t worry. Karim is already gone. His father sent a car to pick him up. I think they’re going to have lunch somewhere. Anyway, all I’m going to do today is jog with Svetlana.”

  “Okay, that gives us twenty-four more hours to get our stuff together.”

  ***

  Steve drove to the town Waterloo, site of the battle that marked the beginning of the end for Napoleon Bonaparte and interrupted the death spiral of European monarchies that had been sparked by the French Revolution. Steve thought it ironic the only monument on the grounds of the information center on the north side of the battlefield was of Bonaparte, the loser. Were the French Revolution and the Iranian Revolution comparable? Only that each began a desire for change, he thought. In time, most of the European monarchies had fallen by the wayside, and Islamic jihad had taken Khomeini’s success in overthrowing the Shah as a hopeful model.

  He turned past an open gate onto a cobblestone courtyard fronting a two-story pink house with a tower on one corner overlooking a large grassy area. The original waist-high fence had been augmented by about six feet of wire. Steve guessed the previous owners must have kept a dog. He parked parallel to two other cars and walked by two heavy iron rings fixed to the wall of the house for anyone needing to tie up his horse.

  Colonel Vanness opened the door and led him through a dark hallway with wooden stairs into a large, peach-colored living room with sliding doors to the outside, a large fireplace at the far end, and an alcove on each side, one with a game table and the other serving as a library. Glass tables on golden metal legs flanked a white sofa.

  “I am glad you came,” Vanness said. “I have information for you. The general spent last night at an apartment building on the north side of the city. Unfortunately, we don’t know which apartment he visited.”

  Steve heard steps coming down the stairs, and McCabe entered the room. “We have enough room in this house to hold the entire Belgian royal family,” McCabe said. “Upstairs there’s an office without windows that can be his home while he—what’s his name, Karim?—is our guest.” He sat opposite the other two men. “But the place is so big it’ll take at least six guys to cover the perimeter.”

  Steve looked questioningly at the colonel, who said, “I will have four men here starting tonight.” He looked at his watch and added, “I think my men have discovered where Yosemani is holding Kella. It is about half an hour from here in Charleroi, to the south.”

  “When were you going to tell us?” Steve asked, now standing. “How many guards? What about weapons?”

  “It would be better if we just took a ride and took a look at it ourselves,” McCabe said.

  20. Waterloo, Belgium

  The three men left in Colonel Vanness’s car, and they were soon on the outskirts of Charleroi, a working-class area. Steve could well imagine what the place had looked like when van Gogh was inspired to paint “The Potato Eaters,” a dark view of the life of miners in the late nineteenth century.

  The Iranian safe house where Kella was being held was on Rue Murat, a narrow one-wa
y street in a middle-class neighborhood.

  Tradecraft 101, Steve thought. A safe house should never be on a one-way street or a cul-de-sac; it gives the opposition an advantage. It indicated to him the other team was more law enforcement than intelligence. Rue Murat was like the center of an I-beam. At the bottom was Avenue Blucher and at the top Avenue Wellington.

  They drove past the house and, when they came face to face with a sign on Wellington indicating Brussels to the left and Mons to the right, turned to the left and stopped. “There’s only one guard outside the house, and he is certainly not Iranian,” McCabe said.

  “We could probably get Kella, right now,” Steve said, as he checked his Glock below the level of the car window and felt his pulse quicken.

  “I’m willing,” McCabe said, also checking his weapon and as calm as if discussing the weather. “We will have surprise. I can easily take care of the guy outside. How many people could be inside the house?”

  “You understand that, while I can help you in many ways, I cannot participate in a shootout,” Vanness said, smiling nervously, as he put the car in gear and drove slowly through the residential area. “This is not an American movie.

  “The outside guard,” Vanness continued as he looked nervously in the rearview mirror, “is probably one of DuChemin’s men. I assume someone else is watching the back, and the two Iranian guards are probably inside.”

  Steve and McCabe nodded to each other, and McCabe asked Vanness to let him out of the car at one end of the street. He and Steve would approach the house on foot from opposite ends. But after turning the corner to look toward the house McCabe ran back quietly. “There’s a black car in front of the house with three guys getting out,” he said. “I say we go back to plan A and stick with the hostage exchange. It will be a lot safer for Kella. Besides, this is Brussels not Fallujah. With our three to their seven, we still outnumber them, but I don’t want to be responsible for a Belgian bloodbath.”